The Improbable Adventures of Scar and Potbelly: Ice Terraces of Crystal Crag (19 page)

Scar worked first one horse through the opening, then the other. It proved to be almost not wide enough. Scar’s horse panicked when the walls scraped its sides and almost got stuck. But some pulling got it through. Potbelly’s passed with no problem.

The wall across from where they entered looked as if it had been hewn away by hammer and chisel. Rocks bearing those selfsame marks lay strewn across the floor of the open space. Matlin and crew had created a way around the falls.

Once through the hewn opening, they were in another small cave that opened onto the gorge’s floor. The falls was behind them. Mounting, they continued up the gorge.

The sun had not yet reached its zenith when they reached where the sides of the gorge began to relax and hold an incline rather than being sheer cliffs. Then just after noon, water from another falls blocked their way.

This falls streamed down in tiered cascades, winding first to one side then another before reaching the gorge floor.

“The serpentine fall.”

Scar nodded. “Looks that way.”

Rising steeply beside it was the trail. This would be far more challenging than the one they descended on the way to Moonshine Rock. It was narrower and at times steeper. But unlike the other, the path itself wasn’t wet.

Scar glanced to the sky. “Plenty of time to get to the top.”

“If Matlin is correct, and he has been thus far, we should be able to see Crystal Crag from up there.”

Scar grinned. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Taking the lead as is his want, Scar led his horse to the beginning of the trail, then after putting the hood on his steed, began the ascent.

The climb was not nearly as bad as anticipated. The trail, though narrow, offered decent traction and held periodic spans of gentle incline. It took a half hour but they made it without incident.

A plateau stretched eastward for miles toward the distant peaks. And it was to the peaks that their gaze was drawn.
Three mountains stand out among the rest. Your goal lies within the left-most peak.
Now that they were there, it was clear what Matlin had been talking about.

Where the plateau ended began a range of mountains; beyond that range rose three peaks and they definitely stood out from the rest. Two were cloaked in snow yet had smoke rising from them. The left-most had no smoke rising. It glittered in the sun even from such a distance.

“Crystal Crag,” Scar said.

“Must be the ice terraces that make it glitter so.”

Scar nodded. “Still a ways to go.”

From the east, winds whipping across the plateau made it far cooler than it should have been. They pulled out the first of their warmer clothing. With still half a day remaining before them, they rested for only a short time, then mounted and started across the Great Plateau.

Not far from gaining the plateau, they came across another fire pit.

“They stopped here,” Scar said.

Potbelly looked down at a pit devoid of everything, including ashes.

Off to the side, several yards from the pit was a stone cairn; rising from one end stood a large thin sheet of stone. “Rosen Carenthrall,” Potbelly read.

“Lost one before they ever got there,” Scar commented. He glanced about the plateau, visions of snow beasts played through his mind.

“Wonder why?”

“We’ll question Tork when I’m beating him to death for sending Garrock after us.”

“Now you’re not going to do that.”

Scar turned a determined look upon him.

“Until we know why he told Garrock,” Potbelly said, “hold off on the beating.”

“But if he did?”

Potbelly shrugged.

They left the cairn behind and continued across the plateau.

The distant peaks grew as the miles fell away. Ever present on the horizon, Crystal Crag stood like a beacon, inviting them forward. Scar rode with visions of gold, jewels and rare and exotic weaponry dancing through his head. Before he knew it, Potbelly was calling for a halt. Night was eminent and camp needed to be made before they lost the light.

Very little fuel could be scavenged in the barren land. A few dead bushes, some sticks that had come from who knew where, and dried scat.

Scar was less than pleased with the handful of scat Potbelly brought back with him. But despite the unpleasant aroma, it burned well and kept the fire going throughout the night.

Noon the next day, mounds off to the north came into view. Situated at the base of a series of hills dotting the area, they looked out of place.

“Should we take a look?” Potbelly asked. When Scar looked about to balk, he added, “They’re not that far and they could be burial mounds.”

The chance for possible loot had to be taken. They altered course and made for the mounds.

There were six. Each rose to roughly ten feet, with half that again in width and length. There were no discernable ways to enter.

“They don’t look like burial mounds,” Scar said, disappointed.

“If not, then what are they?”

Scar shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think we just wasted an hour for nothing. Let’s get going.”

They left the mounds and the enigma of what they were behind.

Not long before it came time to make camp, another set of six mounds appeared to the south. They investigated and just as the previous set, these were uniform in size and no visible way to enter.

“Odd,” Potbelly said.

“To say the least,” agreed Scar.

Potbelly suggested making camp amongst them to keep the wind at bay. Scar on the other hand felt it prudent to not tempt fate and keep their distance.

“The air has grown much cooler,” Potbelly argued. “Last night, even with the fire, I never quite got warm. Tonight will be worse.”

Scar eyed the mounds suspiciously.

“It’s only dirt,” Potbelly said.

He had to agree, there was a definite nip in the air. The shelter the mounds would provide would be welcome. “Very well.”

Once fuel for the fire was gathered and the fire warmed the evening, Scar took a closer look at these mounds.
Were they tombs as Potbelly seemed to think?
They weren’t of natural construction, of that there could be no doubt.

From the pile of sticks, dead bushes and scat, he took a stick over a foot long and set it against the side of the mound.

“What are you doing?” Potbelly asked from where he tended the fire.

“Seeing what’s in there.” Using a rock, he hammered the end of the stick, driving it into the dirt.

“Might disturb the occupant.”

Swinging the rock a second time to drive the stick deeper, he pulled back and turned to Potbelly.

“If there is a dead person in there,” Potbelly said, “he might not appreciate being disturbed.”

A week ago Scar would have laughed at him. But now, after having spent the evening in the company of spirits at Moonshine Rock, he harbored doubts. He again turned his gaze to the mound and eyed it nervously.

Once Scar turned away, Potbelly broke into a grin which he immediately dropped when Scar turned back to him.

“You may be right,” Scar said as he removed the stick from the mound. He tossed the rock aside. “Not that there are spirits or anything like that, but that the dead deserve respect.”

Nodding solemnly, Potbelly said, “Good point.”

Scar returned to the fire and Potbelly hid another grin.

Midday the following day, the end of the plateau came into sight where it rose to form a series of rolling hills. Beyond the hills loomed snowcapped mountainous peaks, among which reared Crystal Crag.

Six more mounds sat at the base of the hills. Of these six, only five remained mounds. The sixth was broken open; piles of dirt dotted the ground surrounding it.

They approached cautiously, unsure what to expect.

Mixed in among the dirt were sections of hard, thin rock. A dark silver, almost gray, they were streaked with strands of midnight blue. One side was smooth, the other was rough with knobby protrusions ranging from hardly a bulge to two inches in length.

Scar picked one up and found it to be heavier than he thought. “What do you make of this?”

“Intriguing,” Potbelly said. He inspected one the size of two hands laid side by side. Running his finger first along the smooth side, he turned it over and examined the protuberances. He found a piece smaller than the palm of his hand, he put it in his pack.

“Never know,” he replied. “Might be worth something.”

“Good thinking.” Scar hunted through the dirt until finding one slightly larger than Potbelly’s. If not for their weight, he’d be inclined to take several; but would have to be satisfied with just the one.

Potbelly found an edge of an exceptionally large piece sticking out of the dirt. With Scar’s help, they uncovered it and managed to get it into an upright position. It stood taller than either of them.

“Was big whatever it was,” Scar commented.

Potbelly had Scar keep it upright while he stepped back. He looked at it thoughtfully, eyeing the way the smooth side had a distinct concave curve to it.

“You know, if this was much smaller, it would look like…an egg shell.”

“Bah,” Scar said. “That isn’t possible.”

Potbelly went and gripped its edge. “Take a look for yourself.”

Scar stepped back several paces and inspected it. He shook his head. “I think you’re daft.”

“I tell you this was an egg.” He glanced to the remaining five mounds. “Which means these hold eggs too.”

“What kind of creature could lay something this large?” Scar asked.

Potbelly shook his head and let go the egg shell. “I don’t know” He then looked to the distant peaks. “And I hope we never find out.”

Scar eyed his friend skeptically, rolled his eyes, then said, “We have several more hours of daylight. No sense in wasting them.”

Leaving the mounds and plateau behind, they entered the hills. They worked their way to the top of the nearest, and looked out over a narrow, forested valley wending its way between two large peaks. It lay in the general direction of Crystal Crag. Midway down its length glistened the waters of a small lake nestled in among the trees.

Gauging the amount of sunlight remaining, Scar said, “We can reach that before nightfall. Trees would make a good shelter and the lake may have fish.”

Coming down off the hill, the forest began sparse but as the elevation declined, the density of trees increased. Down in the valley they encountered old, old trees with trunks wider than the height of a man. They climbed far into the sky and their outspread branches created a nearly impenetrable canopy steeped in shadow and mystery. As a result, the underbrush was sparse and the going fairly easy.

Game was abundant; deer and other animals skittered away from the strangers in their midst.

Beneath the dense canopy, though travel proved easy, keeping their sense of directions was another matter. Without a clear view of the sun, or the surrounding terrain, knowing which way was north proved problematic. Having to steer around deadfalls and other obstacles only compounded the problem; they quickly became disoriented. Shadows deepened with the close of day and they had yet to come to the lake.

“We should be there by now,” Scar said in the dim light.

Potbelly nodded. “I would have thought so, too.”

Gazing at the trees around them and the canopy did little to help. With no direct sunlight getting through, there were no shadows, just a diffuse light that permeated everywhere equally. And that light was rapidly diminishing.

“We better make camp before we lose the light altogether,” Potbelly said.

Glancing about the forest, Scar nodded. He caught sight of a stream and there they made camp.

“It should lead us to the lake,” Scar said as he searched for stones for a fire ring.

Potbelly gathered wood and soon had more than enough stockpiled for the night.

The night fell fast in that world beneath the trees. The play of the firelight against the tree backdrop made for disturbing shadows. They picketed the horses close so they stood within the firelight. “In a place like this,” Potbelly had said, “predators must abound.”

His words proved truer than he had thought. Not long after night had set in with a vengeance, howls sounded from far off.

“Wolves.”

Potbelly nodded. More howls came, this time from a different part of the forest. Then another from yet a third area.

“They’re all around us.”

Scar threw another large branch on the fire. “At least they’re not close.”

Over the course of the next hour, the howling did grow closer. Potbelly took a flaming brand from the fire and went to gather additional wood in case the pack should come near. A larger fire would more than likely keep them from entering the campsite. Their greatest fear was for the horses.

They kept their weapons handy as the pack ranged through the trees. At times their howls would draw closer, other times it seemed that they were moving away.